


and not waving but drowning

by the_one_that_fell



Series: the heaviness that i hold in my heart belongs to gravity [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Character Study, Demisexual Jack, Getting Together, Homophobia, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 15:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6615430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_one_that_fell/pseuds/the_one_that_fell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack considered himself an Icarus of sorts. He never thought he’d learn to love the sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and not waving but drowning

**Author's Note:**

> TW for Suicidal Thoughts, Self Harm (Not Cutting), Graphic Descriptions of Panic Attacks, Graphic Description of Jack's Overdose, Homophobic Bullying (from Bitty's childhood), a Minor Character Getting Disowned, and a _lot_ of Anxiety.
> 
> This...got away from me. It started as a study of Jack's anxiety and ended as an abridged account of his entire life. And honestly I can't look at it anymore and I just want to be done with it so HERE.

_I was much too far out all my life_  
_And not waving but drowning._  
_-Stevie Smith_

* * *

 

“When you feel overwhelmed by something, try counting down from ten. Focus on your breathing, and try to slow it down to normal by the time you reach one. Block out everything else and just count.”

Jack couldn’t remember who had said this to him, if he was being honest. It was early in his life, so probably his mother or a teacher, but it didn’t really matter, in the end.

What mattered was that it was the only relaxation technique that had ever remotely worked for him. Counting down, like the seconds left in a game, like the few moments of calm before everything in his life changed.

It wasn’t always enough.

_He_ wasn’t always enough.

And that was the root of everything, wasn’t it? The glue on his wings had never quite dried, but he supposed he’d rather go out in a blaze of glory than fail everyone around him.

(Like he always did, again and again and again and-)

Jack considered himself an Icarus of sorts. He never thought he’d learn to love the sun.

 

* * *

 

Jack had his first panic attack when he was six years old. It would a decade before he would have a word to describe it – a cold, clinical “anxiety,” spat in his face by some impassive doctor – and so he thought he was drowning.

Surely water was filling up in his lungs - what else could that pressure in his chest be? He was going to choke, suffocate, in his bedroom wedged between his bedside table and the wall. Jack gasped for air, muscles tense and joints locking. He couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, he was going to drown on dry land, completely alone-

“Jack?”

“ _Maman_ ,” he choked out.

“Oh, Jack.”

His mother practically collapsed in front of him, one hand enveloping his clenched fist, the other brushing away the tears on his cheeks.

“Just breathe,” she’d whispered, rocking him back and forth. “Breathe.”

Jack tried and couldn’t, gasped until he thought was going to pass out. Maman counted, quietly, rubbing circles against his back.

_“Dix...neuf...huit…”_

Jack jammed his eyes closed tight. It was his fault. He’d broken Papa’s favorite mug. He’d made Papa mad. Everything was his fault.

_“Sept...six…”_

But Maman didn’t seem mad, so maybe it wasn’t so bad. He tried to take a slow breath, but it hitched in his throat.

Maman pried his fingers apart, forcing him to loosen his fists.

_“Cinq...quatre...trois…”_

He focused on breathing, in and out. Maman held him close, did the counting for him. All he had to do was breathe.

_“Deux...un…”_

He wasn’t fine, but he was better. His mother smiled at him, softly, and kissed his forehead.

“Come downstairs and talk to your father,” she said. “I’ll be with you. It’ll be okay.”

He took her hand and followed. And for the next couple of years, he actually believed her when she said those words.

 

* * *

 

Kenny was always looking for adventure. _It's what you do when you're young_ , he'd always say to Jack. _You live._

Jack never craved adventure, never wanted to do stupid things for the hell of it. Partly it was because he lived under a spotlight his entire life, the world just waiting for him to fuck up. But beyond that, it was because Jack craved nothing more than stability.

Adventure was fine, sure, but from a young age on all Jack wanted was to feel like he had both feet planted firmly on the ground. That was hard when all your best friend wanted to do was fly.

(But Jack didn’t have Kenny’s wings; when he tried to fly he fell, and it almost cost him  _everything_.)

 

* * *

 

For such a monumental moment in his life, Jack’s panic attack was set off by the smallest of things.

He’d been watching TV alone, curled up on his bed in the dark, cell phone powered off and shoved in a drawer. His cup help much more than orange juice, and while Jack was ashamed that he was drinking alone, drinking when he should be training or resting, he desperately needed to unwind. Practice that day had been rough and Kenny had said some cruel things to him after. (Kenny was stressed, Jack knew, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.) He was tired, hadn’t slept properly in days, was verging on being very drunk, and was feeling on-edge when some stupid Sport Chek commercial started playing in the background.

“ _Be better_ ,” the narrator said. Jack’s blood ran cold.

“ _Be better_ ,” the narrator kept repeating. Jack’s entire body was shaking. He didn't register when the cup fell from his hand, spilling across his comforter. He just stumbled down the hall to the bathroom, holding onto the wall for support, socks slipping on the tile a bit.

Shame welled in him as he yanked open the medicine cabinet. How could a stupid commercial scare him so much?

_Weak_ , he thought. _You’re so weak._

Mechanically, Jack pulled out the little, orange bottle and knocked back several pills without bothering to count. They hadn’t been working as well lately, hadn’t been helping, and he was just wanted to  _breathe_.

He closed his eyes, bracing his hands on the sink, and took deep, long breaths. In and out. In and out. His skin was pulled too tight across his muscles, like a balloon about to pop. Jack began to count, willing his body to stop shaking.

_Ten...nine...eight..._

Jack’s breathing had slowed. This was good. This is all that he needed.

_Seven...six…_

Jack wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, how long had gone by between the numbers in his head. His eyes felt heavy, too heavy to hold open. Gracelessly, he slid down to the bathroom floor, relaxing against the wall. Everything felt heavy and soft. The clenching pain in his chest was gone, the tightness of his skin loosened, but it still felt like warm water was rushing over him, encasing him, pulling him down.

_Five...four...three…?_

Jack was struggling to count, was struggling to pull himself up from the bathroom floor, was struggling to stay awake. Maybe he could just sleep here for a little while. He was so tired. He’d been tired for so long.

He could feel himself falling, but his vision was dark. He barely felt it when his shoulder hit the tile floor, the little, orange bottle spilling from his grip.

_Two...two...tw-_

* * *

 

When Jack woke up in an unfamiliar hospital room, he still had _one_ on the tip of his tongue.

 

* * *

 

Going to Samwell shouldn’t have felt like a punishment, but it did. And Jack knew he deserved punishment. He wasn’t at Samwell to have fun. He was here to do his penance, to be better.

Some days, though, it didn’t feel like punishment enough.

Jack would rather die than admit it, but blood made him squeamish. He’d seen his own more times than he could count, and had spilled more than his fair share on the rink. Hockey was a contact sport. Shit happened.

In retrospect, having a stomach for blood might’ve gotten him help faster. His parents would’ve noticed the long, thin scars on his arms if he’d been able to cut deep enough to bleed. But the bruises that always littered his chest, his legs, his cheeks, anywhere his fists could reach- well, they blended in nicely with the ones he acquired during practice.

“Brah,” Knight - no, Shitty, he preferred Shitty for some God forsaken reason - said after their second practice as frogs. “Where’d you get that wicked bruise?”

Jack looked down at his forearm, where he’d punched and pummeled away at himself last night after he’d accidentally said something rude to his roommate.

(It was  _stupid_ , he was  _stupid_ , he couldn't have one normal _fucking_ conversation like a normal _fucking_ human being-)

“Oh, you know,” he mumbled, waving vaguely to the locker room and their teammates. “Hockey.”

Shitty narrowed his eyes but nodded. “Be careful - a beaut like you doesn’t need any battle scars.” And then, with an exaggerated wink, he skated off.

It wasn’t the first time a guy had jokingly flirted with him. And it wasn’t the first time he’d liked it. Jack wanted to feel guilty about it, wanted to hurl himself in front of a car for feeling that way towards a teammate, but Shitty was so genuinely nice about everything that Jack let it slide, let himself feel okay about it.

For whatever reason, of all the frogs, Shitty had decided that Jack was the one he’d befriend. Maybe it was pity, maybe it was Jack’s proximity to fame, or maybe Shitty just liked having a friend who didn’t interrupt his long-winded rants, but whatever it was, it meant that Shitty Knight kept coming back, no matter how terse or moody Jack got.

The problem with being Shitty’s friend, however, was that the guy showed up, unannounced, all the time. Usually it wasn’t a problem, to find Shitty waiting for him outside his class or knocking on his dorm room door. But Jack had expected less scrutiny in college, now that he was on his own, and Shitty’s constant presence made him a little nervous. He was just one more person for Jack to disappoint.

They’d lost their game against Yale. Rationally, Jack knew it wasn’t his fault. He was just a frog, hadn’t even started this game, but he couldn’t help the familiar wave of shame and anger that washed over him as he trudged back to his room.

His roommate was out. (It was Friday, after all. Some people let themselves have fun on Fridays.) Jack chucked his gear to the side, almost growling when he felt the familiar tension between his shoulders. He punched the wall, over and over again, forgetting that it was exposed brick, forgetting that he couldn’t afford any broken bones. All Jack could focus on was punishing himself, letting the stone split the skin at his knuckles, letting the pain flood his mind.

Gasping, on the verge of tears, Jack slid to the crowd, pulling himself into a tight ball, hand cradled in his lap.

“Jack?”

Shitty stood in the doorway, jaw tight, eyes bright with worry. Jack wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Shitty frown.

“M’fine,” Jack muttered. “Slipped.”

Shitty didn’t look remotely convinced but he kept his lips pressed together in a tight line. Casually, as casually as anything Shitty ever did in his life, he plopped down next to Jack and rested his head on Jack’s shoulder.

“Is it broken?” He asked. Jack flexed his fingers, only wincing slightly.

“No, just bruised.”

Shitty nodded, humming in response. Then, he asked, “You ever been in fog so thick you couldn’t see your hand stretched out in front of you?”

Jack was taken aback but didn’t question the shift in conversation. “Yeah,” he said.

Shitty hummed softly, body vibrating against Jack's. “So, like, once I was backpacking across Europe with my sister,” he said, waving his hands in front of him like he could sculpt an image for Jack out of air. “And I woke up super early and decided to climb these crags that were outside our hostel. And, y’know, it was a terrible idea. The fog was more or less a cloud and it got worse the higher I climbed and I didn’t have a phone on me and no one else was around because, y'know, normal people don't do that shit.”

Jack didn’t know where this story was going, but he let his head rest against Shitty’s as the words washed over him. The shaking in his hands lessened.

“All in all, not one of my smarter moments. But I get to the top and I’m completely alone and I sit on the edge of a cliff and all around me is just... _gray_. Bright gray, almost white. And...it was like I was the only person in existence, y’know. Just me and the gray forever and ever. If the cliff hadn’t been so rocky, hadn’t hurt my ass so much to sit there, it might’ve felt like flying.”

Jack closed his eyes. Shitty, though he rambled more often than not, was a good storyteller.

“And, you know...that pain in my ass, it grounded me. It reminded me that I wasn’t floating away or sinking in the fog. It reminded me where I was and who I was.”

_Ah_ , Jack thought. _There’s his point._

“You gone to the counseling office?” Shitty asked.

“Yeah,” Jack said, though it was more of a sigh. He  _had_ gone. Once. 

Shitty nodded, and Jack was struck by how non-judgmental everything Shitty said and did was. “You wanna snuggle?”

Jack couldn’t help but snort. “No, thanks.”

Shitty shrugged, but a smile tugged at his lips. “Your loss, Zimmermann.”

With Shitty, Samwell was starting to feel less like a punishment and more like a gift. Some days Jack even felt like he maybe deserved it. 

 

* * *

 

There were some days when Jack felt like an honest-to-God hockey robot, days where he went through the motions of humanity mechanically, intentionally. It helped, he thought, helped him feel normal, like he wasn’t a disappointment.

Then there were days where he felt... _fine_ . And these were the days he began to question everything. Had he been overreacting? Had it all been a bad dream? Surely those panic attacks hadn’t been _that bad_. He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t.

By his sophomore year, Jack started having more normal days. He was no longer fresh out of rehab, he’d settled into life at Samwell, and he’d developed a routine that he stuck to religiously. He was captain of the hockey team, which was stressful in its own way but the guys seemed to look up to him, mostly. It was nice, having people respect him like that.

Even with the new frogs, Jack was getting far fewer stares or suspicious glances than he had his freshman year. That made it easier for him to pretend to be normal, to feel like a _real human being_.

And then, one day, Jack realized he had a group of friends again. People who wanted to hang out with him because they _liked him_ , despite his robot modes and awkward quirks.

It started when two of the frogs had taken to harassing him. Shitty said that’s how they made friends, which was- dumb. But they were never cruel or malicious, just sort of annoying, so Jack didn’t stop them from hanging around the Haus, even when he really just wanted some peace and quiet.

He was a little jealous, really, of how quickly they had become friends with each other. Ransom and Holster, Holtz and Rans, the dynamic d-men duo - they’d only been playing together a few weeks, but they were already practically living in each other’s pockets.

(He didn’t think of how that used to be him and Kenny. That wound was still too fresh and probably always would be.)

Ransom and Holster were the type of people who knew and liked  _everyone_ \- except for the lacrosse team, but they were dicks so they didn't count. Jack knew they tolerated him, maybe even looked up to him in a vague "that guy is my captain and tells me what to do a lot" sense, but it wasn't until the middle of his sophomore year that he realized they didn't hang around Johnson or Lockdown or Birdie the way they followed Jack and Shitty around after practice or before games. 

"They're cool dudes," Shitty said when Jack brought it up with him. "They recognize other cool dudes when they see 'em." 

"Maybe," Jack said, unconvinced. 

But Ransom and Holster kept on showing up, the way Shitty had, the way Kenny had. They chirped Jack for being a hardass and they sat next to him at team breakfasts and they even found him a Winter Screw date after he finally relented. 

("Jack, bro, what's your type, help us out." 

"I don't have a type, Ransom." 

"That's bullshit, man. Just tell us." 

"...Blonde. Athletic."

"CHYEAH IT IS."

"ZIMMERMANN DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY BLONDE ATHLETES WE KNOW?"

"That's not my problem.")

Jack was jealous of how easily the two d-men  _got_ people. Holster could talk to anyone about anything and Jack had once seen Ransom become Facebook friends with the entire women's volleyball team in a day. They were charming and friendly and perfectly at ease wherever they went. Shitty was similar, though his personality could be grating on first impression. Even Johnson was adept at making friends and talking to strangers, as strange as his conversations could get. 

So Jack was grateful when Larissa started managing the team. She wasn't shy or awkward, even by frog standards, but she didn't seem to like talking to people unless she was bossing them around or destroying their egos. Jack could appreciate the silence. And Larissa - freshly dubbed  _Lardo_ \- seemed to appreciate his own quiet nature. 

He wasn't the only one to notice his sudden increase in friends. During his weekly call home, Maman was less talkative than usual. When Jack asked her if she was okay, she laughed, a happy, tinkling sound. "Oh, Jack," she said softly. "I was just too busy listening to  _you_. I like hearing about all your friends. You have so many now, it's getting hard to keep track of them."

"Oh." Jack hadn't even realized he'd been talking that long, but the most  _ridiculous_ thing had happened yesterday - because Shitty had no concept of personal space and Lardo had no tolerance for dumb hockey players - and he'd just sort of...kept talking. 

"You seem happy today," Maman said. "It's nice to hear."

Jack smiled a little. "Yeah, I...I feel happy. Today." 

He could hear her sigh, soft and unintentional. "One day at a time, baby. I'm glad you're happy. Now, tell me about Larissa, I haven't heard as much about her. How on  _earth_ does put up with you silly boys?"

Jack laughed. "Well, she's started coming to Haus parties, and she absolutely  _demolishes_ the guys at pong- I think I saw Birdie cry. Oh! And she does this thing-"

It was the longest phone call home Jack had ever had. It probably wasn't a coincidence that his father called the next day, claiming that Maman had told him about the time Lardo forced Holster to give her piggyback rides to class for a week and that he wanted to hear more. But Jack found he didn't really mind. 

 

* * *

 

Jack first officially came out - if he could even call it that - towards the end of his sophomore year. 

(His parents already knew;  _Kenny_ certainly knew.)

He and Shitty were out at the reading room, Jack reading, Shitty nursing a beer. The days were getting warmer and classes were getting harder. A couple girls walked down the street, laughing and chatting brightly. Music was blaring from the lacrosse house, the bass so loud it reverberated through the frame of Haus. Jack sighed in contentment. 

“You would not believe the week I’ve had, brah,” Shitty said, a goofy grin on his face. “I’ve _literally_ had four - _four -_ people come out to me since Tuesday.” He chuckled, taking another swig of his beer. “Do I have a sign on my back? ‘Please come out to me?’ ‘Will affirm sexual identities?’”

Jack froze, slowly closing his back. “Wow, really?” He winced at how forced his response was, but Shitty didn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah, man, I don’t know. I’m glad they feel they can trust me!” He added quickly. “That’s a big step for a lot of people, you know? But... _four_ man. In a _week_.”

Jack nodded tersely, the cogs of his mind turning quickly. Then, without meaning to, he asked, “Ransom and Holster?”

Shitty choked on beer, spitting most of it out over the roof edge. “The fuck, brah! You can’t just _ask_ who it was. It’s not my place.”

“Sorry,” Jack mumbled. Then, with a deep breath, he said, “It’s just...they remind me...of me. And someone I used to know.”

Shitty’s eyes grew wide. He set his beer to the side, turning so his whole body was facing Jack. “Are you…? You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to, but I’m here for you, man.”

Jack nodded. “I’m not really sure _what_ I am,” he said with a shrug. “Never wanted to put a word to it, you know? But...I’m not straight. I know that.”

With a soft smile, Shitty clapped him on the arm. “Well, thank you for trusting me with that. If you ever need to talk about it…”

“Thanks, Shits,” Jack said. He paused as a thought dawned on him. “So...that’s number five.”

Shitty’s face lit up and he keeled over with laughter. “Five in a week!” He shouted, slapping at his knee like some cartoon hillbilly. “That has to be some sort of record, even at Samwell!”

Jack laughed softly and ducked his head. He often forgot about Samwell's reputation, but now he was reminded that there were people like Shitty in the world, people who would accept him. It was a nice thought. 

"So, anyone caught your eye lately?" Shitty asked, finishing off the last of his beer. Jack momentarily thought about admitting to his brief (but embarrassing) crush on Shitty himself freshman year, but decided against it. Instead, he shook his head. 

"No, don't really have time..."

Shitty nodded, understanding. "Well, we all know your true love is hockey, so I guess anyone who wants to take a ride of the Zimmermann Express better be okay with an open relationship." He winked at Jack, chuckling at his own joke. 

Jack rolled his eyes. "Good one, Shits." 

"It's what I'm here for, brah," Shitty said, nudging his foot against Jack's. Then, in a more serious tone, "I mean it." 

"I know." Jack nudged back, grinning. Shitty slapped him on the back, then grabbed the book he'd abandoned. 

"C'mon, man, let's go see if we can trick the frogs into swimming in the pond. Studying can wait!" He practically somersaulted through the window to Johnson's room. Jack followed quickly, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. 

 

* * *

 

The first time Jack laid eyes on Eric Bittle, he had to look away almost immediately. The kid was bright - huge, nervous grin, sparkling eyes, bubbling laugh - and it hurt just looking at him. No one else seemed to have this problem, but then no one else on the team seemed to have a brain as broken as Jack’s.

Looking at Bittle was like staring into the sun.

And like Icarus before him, Jack didn’t have the best experience with suns.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t get it,” Jack said, running a hand through his hair. “You can’t play hockey and be afraid of getting hurt.”

Shitty raised an eyebrow but didn’t look up from his book. “Bits used to do figure skating, y’know. Told me he broke his wrist twice and competed on a sprained knee - I don’t think it’s the pain that’s his issue.”

Jack slowed his pacing but didn’t stop. “Well what else would it be?”

Shitty shrugged. “I dunno, but, brah, Bitty is...well, _bitty_ , comparatively. And he used to play football, though he’s never sounded very fond of it…”

“There’s tackling in football,” Jack said. “So what’s the difference?”

Shitty sighed and closed his book, giving Jack his fondest “you beautiful idiot” smile. “Gee, why would a gay kid in Georgia who played football with a bunch of meatheads twice his size be afraid of getting tackled?”

Jack stopped in his tracks. “Oh.”

Shitty laughed and opened his book again. “Got there, didja?”

Jack frowned and perched on the edge of the bed. "Why couldn't he just  _say_ that's his problem?"

Closing the book, Shitty looked up at Jack with startlingly sad eyes. "He probably hasn't made the connection, y'know? Or hasn't  _wanted_ to. Or he's embarrassed to admit it. He can't help how his brain handles trauma."

The blood drained from Jack's face. "Trauma?"

He couldn't read the look on Shitty's face, but when Shitty spoke again his words were slow, like he was carefully selecting what he said. "I guess you weren't there the day he mentioned getting locked in a utility closet overnight, huh?"

_"What?"_

Shitty shrugged. "He brought it up in the locker room once, a passing comment more than anything, but that's some pretty serious bullying."

Jack gritted his teeth, hands balling into fists as he thought of  _anyone_ messing with Bittle that way. The kid was infuriating most days, clearly wasn't cut out to be hockey player, but no one deserved to be  _locked_ in a  _closet_ -

"A _closet_ ," he whispered, mortified. 

Shitty sighed. "Yeah, I'm sure the metaphor wasn't lost on Bitty. And he never officially came out to  _you_ , did he? Because you should've heard the things he wrote down on his little index cards, thought we were gonna beat the shit out of him for being gay."

Head in his hands, Jack groaned. " _Fuck_ ," he muttered.

"Yeah," Shitty said, going back to his book. "I'm just saying, keep that in mind during your checking practices, okay?"

 Jack nodded, tersely, and resolved to himself that he would help Bittle fight this fear, fight back against the shadows of all the bullies he'd faced in his life. Shitty smiled at him, a knowing look in his eye.

 (Months later, at playoffs, when Bitty is flying over that thug's shoulders, when Jack is scoring a point that won't matter, when a red helmet bounces across the ice and the whistle screeches and the world goes still, Jack will remember this conversation and stop breathing.

Before Bitty's even off the ice, Jack will drop his gloves and go after Spencer. Ransom and Shitty will hold him back, will keep him from ripping apart the bastard with his bare hands, but Holster and Johnson manage to get a few of the other guys into headlocks before the refs break up the scrum. The team has an unspoken agreement to never tell Bitty.

That night Jack doesn't hurt himself, but he wants to. Shitty sleeps in his bed, though, just in case.)

 

* * *

 

When Jack saw Bittle - red faced, brows furrowed - all but run from the coaches' office, he froze. On the one hand, Bittle looked distressed and probably needed a shoulder to cry on. On the other hand, Bittle was not Jack's biggest fan. The animosity between them (which, as Shitty liked to remind him, was 99% on Jack's side of that relationship) had dissipated over the summer, but they still weren't the best of friends. Bittle needed someone  _better_ to talk to. 

Jack considered calling Shitty, asking him to come here and comfort Bittle, but Shitty had raced from practice to talk to his advisor not long ago and was probably still in his meeting. Lardo was good at letting people lean on them and vent, Jack knew from experience, and her presence in general was calming, but her advice tended to be a little...harsh. ( _Tough love_ , she called it.) 

Literally no one else on the team seemed a viable option. Jack loved his teammates, would probably die for most of them, but they were all...terrible. 

With a deep breath, Jack pushed open the door to the loading dock, bumping into something soft. There was a mortified yelp, some scrambling, and the door swung the rest of the way open. Jack grimaced as he realized he'd hit Bittle.

"Jack!" Bittle cried, wiping desperately at the tears on his face. He forced a smile. "What are you doing here?" 

"I, uh-" Jack paused, scratching the back of his neck. "Are you okay?"

"Oh." Bittle looked down, the hood of his sweatshirt casting his face in shadow. "Oh, yeah, I'm fine! Just needed some air, you know, hard to get back into the swing of things after bein' off-ice for so long."

Bittle was clearly lying, but Jack wasn't sure how to call him on it. "Are you sure you're okay? What did the coaches say?"

"Um..." Bittle sighed, looking back up at Jack. "If I can't...sort out my 'issues with physicality,' with checking...they're going to cut me from the team." 

"They can't cut you," Jack felt himself say. Bittle looked as surprised as he felt. "I mean, you got hit bad last year, of course you've lost some of our progress, we're just going to have to practice again-"

"Jack." 

Jack stopped, face flushing as he realized he'd been rambling. Bittle was looking up at him, eyes shining, his mouth curling into a small, sad smile. 

"Jack, you don't have to do that, I know you're busy this year. I'll be okay."

"Of course I do," he said, a little more gruffly than he'd intended. "I'm your captain, it's my job. Plus," he added, ducking his head. "I need you on my line." 

Smile widening into a bright grin, Bittle cocked his head to the side, looking at Jack like he was really seeing him for the first time. "Thanks, Jack." 

"C'mon, let's head back to the Haus," Jack said, holding the door open for Bittle. "I'm sure you have a pie in the oven you need to tweet about..."

Bittle smacked his arm as he passed but laughed all the same. " _Rude_ , Mr. Zimmermann. You know I would never leave a pie unattended." 

That evening, after dinner, Bittle slid the largest slice of pie in front of Jack without a word. Though his eyes were still a little sad, his smiles a little more forced, he laughed at every bad joke Jack sent his way. 

Jack considered this a personal victory and went to bed that night with a goofy grin plastered across his face. 

* * *

 

 Checking practice was going well until it wasn't.

Bittle was curled on the ice, arms over his head, and when Jack pulled them away he was startled by how pale Bittle's face was.

"I'm sorry," Jack said, a little confused. "I didn't mean to hit you that hard-"

Bittle shook his head. "Wasn't hard, just...a lot..."

Jack remembered the conversation he had with Shitty the year before, remembered the story about Bittle getting locked in the closet. It was obvious to anyone paying attention (Jack) that Bittle didn't like to be touched, especially by the other guys. He seemed to make an exception for Lardo every now and then, but Lardo wasn't the most tactile person to begin with. jack couldn't help himself when he asked, "Is this some sort of reaction to getting locked in the closet?" 

_Smooth, Zimmermann,_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like Ransom said in his head.  _Way to approach it subtly._

Bittle shrugged. “Who told you? Shitty?”

Jack’s throat felt like sandpaper as he tried to swallow. “Yeah,” he managed to rasp.

“I was thirteen,” Bittle said, voice a strained sort of even. “Coach’s boys - my daddy’s football boys, that is - they all hated me, which- fine, whatever, it’s not like I was dyin’ to be friends with them. But they-” Bittle paused and took a deep breath. “They told Coach I’d been invited to a sleepover at Tripp Walker’s house, which, why wouldn’t he believe his own boys? He said okay, so he and Mama didn’t expect me home until morning…”

Jack wondered if he’d made a mistake asking. Bittle’s face was flushed, eyes growing pink with unshed tears. He looked small and _so very young_. It struck Jack that Bittle was only 19.

Bittle looked down, rubbing the back of his neck as he curled in on himself. “We were all in the locker room after practice. I learned later that Coach had already left, thinking I was...The entire team was staring at me, real quiet-like. And then these two eighth graders, Kyle and Hunter, grabbed me and everyone was shouting and laughing and they just shoved me in the utility closet. Locked the door. I think they stayed outside for a while, to listen to me yell at them, to see if I’d cry…And then they all just left me.

“You wanna know the worst part?” Bittle took a shaky breath, pulling his knees to his chest. “I would’ve killed to go to a party at Tripp Walker’s house. I wasn’t a fan of most of the football team but...well…”

Jack was surprised to look up and see Bittle _blushing_ .  “Tripp was the only one who was ever decent to me, and _gosh_ was he handsome - for a 14-year-old I mean. Tall, dark hair, kind eyes...I never knew if he was in on it or if Kyle and Hunter just knew he was the only person on the team Coach would believe I’d interact with outside of practice…”

Jack clenched his fists, almost trembling with rage. He hadn’t wanted to beat up a bunch of teenagers this much since he’d _been one_ but if he _ever_ came across those _miserable pieces of shit-_

He snapped out of his rage, realizing Bitty was still talking. “-it used to be a lot worse, really. I wouldn’t even let Mama hug me for weeks afterwards, I’m not really sure she ever recovered from that.” Bittle chuckled darkly, rubbing a hand across his face. “It’s hard, getting used to people like Shitty and Holster who’re so handsy and I _know_ that’s how they show affection and that no one on this team would ever hurt me but…”

“You can’t control fear,” Jack said quietly. Bittle looked up, eyes wide and watery, and nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I want to be able to hug the guys outside of a celly- hell, I’d love to be able to _initiate_ a celly at least once. I want to be able to give Lardo piggy-back rides and wrestle with Ransom and let Holster manhandle me the way he does with his sisters and I know, logically, that the team doesn’t care that I’m gay and the guys want to treat me the same as a straight friend but-” He nearly gasped for breath as he paused, hands shaking violently in his lap. “I...can’t. It’s hard to trust them like that.”

Jack cleared his throat, hand ghosting across Bittle’s back for a second before he reined it back in. “I know _you_ know this,” he said, voice low and soft. “But you _can_ trust us. We’ve got your back.”

Bittle nodded, jaw tight. Jack scratched the back of his neck, struggling to put words to his thoughts.

“And...that means you can tell the guys not to touch you so much,” he continued, looking down. “If it makes you so uncomfortable. Or I could talk to them, if you want.”

Bittle looked up, surprised. “Oh, no, Jack, it’s fine-”

Jack held up a hand, cutting Bittle off. “Let me finish,” he said, hoping that he didn’t sound harsh or rude. “I mean...I want to help you control these fears. I meant what I said, I need you on my line, and I want you to be able to take a check. But I also know first-hand that something like this-” He motioned to the ice rink, then the space between his body and Bittle’s. “-Facing it in a controlled environment is different than having Shitty tackle you in the front yard naked.”

Bittle let out a surprised laugh. “You...you’re right, but...I’d rather the guys not know. I don’t want them to think of me as...I don’t know, _weak_.”

“You’re not-”

"I am," Bittle said forcefully. "I should be able to take a check but I _can't_ because some meathead preteens pushed me around. That's ridiculous." He sighed and looked down. "I'd cut me from the team, too, if I were the coaches." 

"Bittle." Jack reached out to clasp Bittle's shoulder but stopped himself. "Bitty. Look at me." Bittle looked up, face red, the corners of his mouth turned down sadly. "You're not weak. You're one of the strongest people I know. You're strong and you're kind and you procrastinate on your work too much-" Bittle let out a surprised laugh. "-and you really need to incorporate more protein and less pie in your diet. And you're a good friend and a good teammate and you're _not getting cut._ " 

Bittle looked up at him like he'd just announced he was getting married to Shitty or quitting hockey or something else completely outrageous. "Thanks, Jack," he said, face softening into a smile.

"You ready to go again?" Jack asked, smiling back.

Bitty nodded and squared his shoulder. "Let's do it."  

 

* * *

 

When Kenny showed back up again, Jack couldn't help but feel robbed. He already had everything Jack wants, was out there living his adventure, flying circles around the sun. He didn’t need to take away this moment with Bittle, too.

It was at some stupid Haus party - the one the boys had dubbed the “Epikegster 2014” - and Jack was nursing a cup of un-spiked Sprite, backed up against the wall with Bittle.

Bittle had been on his phone, live-tweeting the party, and Jack took pride in the fact that he could pull the kid away from the screen more than anyone else. (Or maybe it was just that he was the only one trying. He didn’t think too much about it.)

Bittle was wearing a blue sweatshirt, unzipped, with a white v-neck underneath. Jack had to keep his eyes from lingering on Bittle’s jutting collarbones, the Adam’s apple that bobbed rapidly as he spoke.

They were leaning into each other’s space in a way that they never had before, and at least Bittle could blame the alcohol in his veins. Jack knew he was probably crossing a line between friends and _something else_ , but he felt warm and relaxed and open. Talking with Bittle was easy in a way he so rarely experienced.

For Jack, the moments after a panic attack were startlingly clear, like surfacing from the depths of the ocean into thin, icy air.

Moments like this with Bittle were different, softer, but just as clear. They were warm and content, like floating on top of the water instead of sinking, letting his skin loosen in the sunlight, breathing in the sharp, sea air.

(Years later, Jack would decide that the feeling he got around Bittle was happiness.

Shitty would tackle him to ground after he voiced this revelation, snuggling him fiercely and switching between versions of “I’m so happy for you, bro,” and “Was my love not enough?”)

Seeing Kenny’s face, with that smirk and those eyes and that Aces cap - it was like being plunged into cold, dark water. Jack felt his heart stop.

"Oh!" He heard Bittle say. Someone else shouted, "HOLY SHIT IS THAT KENT PARSON?"

Jack would forever be grateful to Lardo in that moment. Her first instinct, upon seeing someone rich and famous, was to drag him away from his adoring fans and kick his ass at flip cup. This was how Jack made his escape.

All he'd wanted was to drink his Sprite and take selfies with Bittle and let himself be happy before winter break, when he'd be at his parents' house with no friends and no distractions. But of course Kenny had to show up, of course he had to come even though Jack had been avoiding his calls, and muck up the tentative "okay" that had been Jack's brain lately. 

Kent Parson wasn't a bad person. In fact, Jack still loved Kenny, just a little. Maybe not  _love_ loved - he wasn't sure he'd ever really  _loved_ someone - but at one point in time Parse had been his closest friend in the world. You didn't just get over that, no matter how bad things got between you. 

But just because Kenny wasn't the anti-Christ didn't mean Jack wanted to see him. He looked at Kent and all he saw was his own failure reflected back at him, everything he'd fucked up with booze and pills and his shitty head. Kenny had tried to be supportive, tried to help him through his panic attacks in the weeks leading up to the draft, tried to stay friends after leaving for Nevada, but Jack couldn't do it. Kent was flying circles around him like a buzzard and Jack was dead in the water. 

Still, though, Kent found his way into Jack's room eventually, and he looked so  _good_ and Jack felt himself slipping into old habits when Kenny crowded him up against the door, mouth hot and open. 

But just the  _sight_ of Parse made him feel like a teenager again, and that set off warning bells in his head. He had to move forward from that person, he had to be different, be  _better._

He pushed away. "...Kenny," he whispered. "I can't do this."

They fought. Before the draft they'd rarely fought, usually only over stupid teenage things. But now...this was par for the course for them. 

"Zimms," Kenny said, pushing at Jack's chest a little. "Just fucking stop thinking for once and listen to me." Jack clenched his jaw and focused on his breathing, eyes drifting to the logo on Kenny's hat. "I'll tell the GMs you're on board and they can free up a cap space. Then you can be  _done_ with this shitty team. You and me-"

Jack stepped backward, chest tightening. This team was his family, his brothers, how could Parse even-? Couldn't he see how much this team meant to Jack? How much it had saved him? He'd die for any of his boys, and apparently that meant nothing at all. It was only college hockey. It didn't really matter. "Get out," he said, voice tight. 

Kenny looked taken aback, like he hadn't just pushed Jack over the edge. "-Jack," he said, voice breaking a little. Jack closed his eyes. 

Later he wouldn't be able to remember the rest of the fight. They'd both yelled, tempers flaring, and then Parse had hit him with every low blow in the book: saying he missed him, calling him fucked up, telling him that after a few seasons everyone would know how worthless he was. Kent Parson wasn't a bad person, but he certainly wasn't a good one either. He was hurt and he wanted Jack to hurt, too. Really, he was the same hot-headed kid Jack had met all those years ago. 

Jack felt the familiar cold wave of dread wash over him. A panic attack had already started, was wrapping its noose around his neck, and Jack needed Parse  _gone_. "Get...get out of my room," he whispered. 

Parse kept talking, kept trying to guilt Jack for shutting him out - and he  _had_ , Jack knew that he had, felt guilty about it but not enough to answer Parse's calls - and Jack snapped: " _Leave, Parse_."

With a huff, Kenny swung the door open and Jack thought he might throw up - Bittle was on the ground outside, reaching for something, eyes wide. He'd  _heard_ , there was no doubt about it. How much, Jack couldn't be sure, but someone had  _heard them_ -

Kent glanced at Bittle and said something Jack didn't quite hear. Then, "But good luck with the Falconers...I'm sure that'll make your dad proud." 

Parse left and Jack slammed the door in Bittle’s face. He sank against it immediately, shaking too hard to stand, and he could feel his skin tighten, his lungs constrict, the blood drain from his face in a rush. Jack gasped, holding back tears, waiting until he heard Bitty’s retreating footsteps to let himself cry.

_That’ll make your dad proud._

Kenny had always been an asshole, but he was charming, too, in his own way. Charismatic, funny, _cool_ \- but when it was just him and Jack, the rest of that melted away. They had been vulnerable in front of each other in away they couldn’t be with anyone else. Kenny still had his bad moments, when they were together, but it was the two of them against the world and

Kenny was probably as fucked up as Jack, as scared and unsure of himself, and definitely as self-destructive. He knew Jack’s weak spots as well as Jack knew his.

Everything was closing in on him. The darkness of his room seemed to grow and Jack felt himself going under, the weight of the world crushing down on him. He took a shaky, shallow breath. 

_Ten, nine, eight-_

Fuck, he couldn't do it. It was his fault for making Parse mad, he shouldn't have pushed him away, shouldn't have snapped. He deserved to feel this way, deserved to know how much he'd fucked up everything in his life. He had no one to blame but himself. 

Jack gritted his teeth, grinding them together until it hurt. He bit into his fist, every muscle in his body tensing and locking as a wave of terror washed over him. His heart beat wildly in his chest, tears welled up in his eyes, his throat closed up-

" _Fuck,"_ he hissed, clutching at his hand. "Shit." 

He tasted blood, and when he looked down his saw two large, red crescents on his hand where he'd bitten through the skin.

This wasn't some bruise he could hide. This was a large, terrifying, red flag.

Clutching his nose in one hand, Jack reached for his phone with the other and opened the internet browser. Dr. Clement's website was saved under bookmarks, and Jack scribbled down the office number on a sticky note. It had been a while since he'd talked to her, but...he needed help.

Jack paused for a moment, hesitating, then typed out a quick text to his parents. 

_Going to make appt with Dr Clement over break. Just thought I'd let you know._

There was no response from his father - for as "bad" as Bad Bob may have been in his youth, he went to bed pretty early these day - but his mother texted back almost immediately.

_Do you need to talk tonight? We could Skype? Are you okay?_

Jack sighed, regretting that he'd worried her this late at night. 

_I'll be fine, going to bed soon. See you tomorrow._

He added the last part with a grimace. He didn't know if his parents thought he was suicidal, but it never hurt to reassure them. His phone buzzed.

_See you tomorrow. I love you very much._

Jack smiled. 

_I love you, too._

He didn't sleep well, between the tightness in his chest and the pain in his hand, but he knew it'd only be a matter of hours until he was with his parents. That thought alone kept him calm until morning. 

 

* * *

 

 Jack hung up the phone, marking his appointment with Dr. Clement on the calendar that hung over his desk. It had been his first priority when he got home, calling her office, and now that he had it all set up he could relax and unpack. Jack never brought back much from school, still had some clothes from high school in his closet that fit just fine, and it didn't take him long to tuck everything away in the appropriate drawers. He was just hanging up a couple shirts when his eyes landed on something shiny tucked under a pair of jeans. 

It was a plastic bag of cookies. Jack smiled, knowing there was only one person in the haus who would've hidden baked goods in his luggage. There was a note attached, scribbled in Bittle's messy cursive:

_I hope you have a 'swawesome break._ _Have fun & relax. Enjoy the cookies, eh? -ERB_

With a small smile, Jack sat on the foot of his bed, marveling at how touched he was by such a small gesture. The cookies didn't last long in the Zimmermann household, but after dinner Jack pinned the note onto the corkboard above his desk, next to a picture of him and Shitty. 

_One day at a time_ , he could hear his Maman say. 

_One moment at a time,_ he thought to himself.  _And maybe you'll make it._

Winter break lasted a little too long, his sessions with Dr. Clement a little too draining, but there was a warmth in his gut that refused to budge, no matter how cold the nights got. 

  

* * *

 

Jack hadn’t been sure what to make of Lardo when they’d first met. Shitty knew her from some class, had seen how naturally she sorted and compartmentalized everything in her life and gotten her the manager gig, was more or less totally in love with her - and Jack tended to be wary of Shitty’s non-hockey friends. They were very often...weird.

But he quickly grew to like Lardo, how she could keep the boys in line and then destroy them at pong, how she didn’t need as many words as Shitty to says what she meant.

(And she always meant what she said.)

Jack also appreciated the fact that she knew nothing of the pro hockey world. He assumed someone (Shitty) had told her about Jack's past, but for all her crass behaviors and sharp tongue, Lardo wasn’t an asshole. She never brought it up and she never treated him any different from her other boys.

(Except for that one night when, after several shots and rounds of flip cup, she stumbled into his room instead of Shitty’s and told him that, after Shitty, he was her favorite person because he wasn’t an idiot or a jaghole and actually listened to her when she fucking told him to do something. And he didn’t talk too much. Also he had the best ass on the team. But don't tell Shitty that last one.

Jack slept on the floor that night, his bed unexpectedly co-opted by the tiny team manager. He couldn’t bring himself to mind though; it was nice to be trusted. It was nice knowing she thought of him as a friend.)

Some nights, if Shitty was busy or if Bittle wasn’t in the kitchen, Jack and Lardo would go up to the reading room and watch the stars in silence. The team chirped them for it, sure, called them emo or pretentious or (once) lovebirds, but it was nice to be just be with someone and not be expected to say the right thing or keep the conversation going. Sometimes Lardo would sketch; sometimes Jack would read. Tonight, though, they both just sat and stared at the sky, lost in their own heads.

His father had called that morning, asking about his anxiety. The pressure in his chest was getting worse, between his classes and meeting with agents and trying to do his best by the Samwell team, but he wasn’t drowning in it, not yet. Still, his father had never understood, had never fought with anxiety the way Jack had, and while he was trying, talking to him about it just made Jack feel weak.

Jack came from a long line of “alkies and psychos,” as his great uncle Denis had once told him. Bad Bob had been the golden child of all his siblings, the one who'd made a name and a life for himself with his own two hands, who was confident and smart and worked harder than anyone Jack knew. The crazy genes had skipped right over Bob, and some days Jack felt like he'd gotten both of their shares.

Maybe he should have drowned. There was already water in his lungs and weights in his shoes and his arms were so close to giving out. He should have died when it would've been easy, when he didn't have Shitty and Lardo and Bitty-

By the look on Lardo’s face, he'd said that last part out loud. Jack ducked his head down, squeezing his eyes tight. Normal people didn't say these things to their friends, didn't burden them with that weight, and he was ready to bolt or play it off as a bad joke when suddenly there was something small and warm tucked under his chin.

Lardo – cool, standoffish Lardo – had crawled between his legs, tiny arms wrapping around his chest. Her arms were shaking she was holding him so tight.

Jack wanted to say something but words failed. But this was Lardo, Larissa “Destroys Men with a Single Quirk of Her Eyebrow” Duan. They had never needed words to understand each other.

Softly, cautiously, he pressed his lips to the crown of her head. A quiet sigh of a sob bubbled from Lardo’s chest and she buried her face in his shirt.

Jack’s nose nuzzled the short tufts of her hair and wrapped his arms around her shoulders in a promise.

“Don't leave,” she whispered, and Jack didn't know if she meant from the roof or…

“I won't,” he promised, and Jack was surprised to realize he meant it. “I won't.”

 

* * *

 Jack returned to the haus from the library around 8:30 and was surprised (and yet not surprised) to see a party in full swing. Lardo seemed to be the guest of honor, though Jack wasn't sure why. Leftover decorations from Valentine's Day had been hung up, pinks and purples, with the addition of some blue garlands he recognized from Holster and Shitty's PARTY IN THE USA kegsters. After watching the team dancing and laughing for a moment, he left, waving at Ransom, who was in the kitchen grabbing more beer, and headed up the stairs. 

He tried to finish up his reading at his desk, but after an hour the noise was too much. Maybe he'd go down and find Bittle, pretend to think that every singer on Holster's playlist was Taylor Swift, let Bittle chirp him for the rest of the night with his sweet smile and laughing eyes. Jack grinned to himself and left his room. 

To his surprise, Bittle's door was ajar, light spilling through into the hallway. Jack knocked and the door opened a little further.

"What do you- oh!" Bittle jumped off his bed, wiping at his eyes, and let Jack into the room. "You're back early tonight." 

Jack nodded, distracted by the wet patches on Bitty's cheeks. "I didn't expect to come home to a party." 

“Lardo came out to her parents,” Bitty said with a sniff. “That's what the kegster’s for. And I'm, like, so happy for her, really...it's just…”

Jack sat down on the edge of Bitty’s bed. Bitty was nursing a red solo cup, his hair disheveled and eyes unfocused. Jack had seen him down at the party earlier, dancing (though to Jack it looked a couple centimeters shy of dry-humping) with Lardo and Nursey. He'd been smiling, arms wrapped around Lardo in such a comfortable way. Everything had looked fine to Jack when he’d slipped upstairs. He realized, with a sharp tug in his gut, that Bitty must’ve hit drink number six.

(Just like Jack has his Robot Hockey **™** modes, Bittle had different modes of drunkenness. One Drink Bitty was cheerful and giggly. Two Drink Bitty was a _huge_ flirt. Three Drink Bitty was a dancer, Four Drink Bitty was somewhere between a marathon sprinter and a cat in heat, Five Drink Bitty had major coordination issues but still knew the Single Ladies dance by heart, and Six Drink Bitty - well.

Jack had never seen Six Drink Bitty, but Shitty had told him once, in confidence, about the time Holster more or less had to carry Six Drink Bitty home from a volleyball party because he'd been crying so hard. Holtzy didn't chirp Bitty for _anything_ the entire week after the incident, even when Bitty accidentally called Jack “sweetheart” in front of the entire team. While everyone else had been laughing hysterically, Holster had just grimaced and patted Bitty on the back.)

“You're not…?” The “... _out?”_ died in Jack’s throat. He could practically hear Shitty berating him for prying into something so personal, especially when Bitty was so out of it.

Bitty shook his head, eyes cast down. “No...and I don't imagine I ever will be to them.”

This alarmed Jack. “Are your parents...do you need to talk to someone? Are they…?”

Bitty almost smiled. “No, it's not like that...It's not that they’d disown me or beat me or…” Bitty trailed off, mouth pressed into a tight line. “But...I’m almost certain they already know. And they completely ignore it, like if we never mention homosexuality then it won't exist. Then I won't...be abnormal.”

Jack nodded, brow furrowed. After he’d come out to his parents, they'd been adorably insufferable. Maman was always trying to flirt with cute waiters and cashiers _for him_. Papa liked to ask very unsubtle questions about a certain pie-baking teammate. (He'd done the same freshman year, except the questions had been about “that fellow with the mustache.” That had been pretty mortifying for Jack, but he couldn’t imagine what it would be like if they were unsupportive.)

“It's the little things, you know?” Bitty was slurring his words a little more, slumped against the wall. His eyes were fluttering open and closed, and Jack couldn't tell if it was because of the alcohol or if he was fighting back tears. “My mom uses ‘lesbian’ to mean ugly when she's gossiping about the neighbor girls. In high school, Coach would leave the room anytime gay characters on _Glee_ would kiss. They refer to Ellen DeGeneres and Portia De Rossi as _lovers_ \- not wives, not spouses. Because God forbid we treat their marriage normally!”

Bitty chuckled darkly, running a hand over his face. “I know I shouldn't complain. It could be so much worse, really I'm lucky. But coming out...it would be such an ordeal for something that wouldn't _change_ anything. They'll continue with the micro aggressions and pretend I never said anything. Mama’ll still be telling me about nice girls at home and asking about grandbabies. Coach’ll ignore every aspect of my life that doesn’t interest him, as always.”

At a loss for words, Jack reached over and clasped Bitty on the shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

Under his hand, Bitty shrugged. “Like I said, it could be worse. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, it's just...I know the real world isn't gonna be like living in the Haus or being at Samwell. Especially not if I move back home…”

Jack’s hand tensed and Bitty yelped. “Sorry,” he murmured, loosening the vice grip he had on Bitty’s shoulder. “Are you really considering moving back to Georgia?”

Bitty sighed and took another swig of his drink. “It's home, for all its flaws. And, y’know, it’d be a good way to save up money, work for a year or so…” He trailed off, grimacing. “A year wouldn't be so bad…”

Jack couldn't quite explain why the thought of Bittle moving home bothered him so much. Why would he go back to a place he didn't feel safe or free to be himself? Why would he move so far away from J- from his friends?

“Bittle,” he said, clearing his throat. “I, uh. I'm not entirely sure where I'll be in two years, but chances are I'll still be in Providence. I've been looking at two-bedroom apartments…” He trailed off, face burning. “I guess what I'm trying to say is...you always have a place to live. Up here.”

For a split second, Jack thought he'd fucked up, crossed some sort of line. Bitty stared up at him, eyes nearly bugging out from his skull. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face.

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann,” he said, eyes shining. “Are you serious?”

Jack shrugged. “I wouldn't joke about something like this.”

There was a tense couple of seconds where neither of them said anything. Then, Jack was being propelled off the bed with an armful of Bitty. Bitty - who had six drinks seemed to be channeling Shitty - had his arms wrapped tight around Jack’s chest, face buried in Jack’s worn, Samwell t-shirt.

“Thank you,” he whispered, so soft Jack almost missed it. Jack hooked his chin over Bitty’s shoulder with a small smile. It was one of the more awkward hugs he’d ever had, with Bitty more or less sitting on him on the floor of his bedroom, but Jack wasn't quite ready to let go.

“I've got your back, Bitty,” he said, just as soft. “Always.”

 

* * *

 

Jack and Lardo were going through Jack's camera, picking out pictures for his photography assignment. It was an unusually balmy spring day, and they were sprawled by the Pond on one of the blankets from the haus that Bittle had insisted they needed to cover the diseased, green couch.

"You have a lot of pictures of Bitty on here," Lardo noted, no judgment or deeper meaning in her voice. It was simply an observation. 

"He's a good subject," Jack said with a shrug. "Photogenic."

Lardo tilted her head. "I don't know, I think Ransom looks better in a lot of these. What makes Bitty so special?"

“He’s like the sun,” Jack said. “He...he _glows_.”

Lardo hummed as she looked at the photo on the small, smudged screen. “Or is he burning?”

“Is that your very professional interpretation as an artist?” Jack asked, eyebrow raised. “Or have you and Shitty been smoking?”

Lardo took a deep breath, brow furrowed as she carefully chose her words. “I love the kid to death, but he’s not an angel, Jack, and you’re not some demon.” She held up a hand to stop his protests. “And yeah, I am majorly faded right now but the point remains: he’s not some precious jewel who’s too good for you, and you’re not so fucked up that nobody could ever love you.” Then, in a smaller voice, “You deserve to be happy, you know.”

Jack felt his face grow warm but he pressed on. “I don’t see what that has to do with him burning. Or my assignment.”

Lardo blinked, long and slow, eyes red and unfocused, then shrugged. “As Johnson would say: I’m just trying to aid the plot progression.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, man. Let me see the other photos.”

It wasn't the strangest conversation he'd ever had with Lardo, but her words stayed with him that night, turning over and over his head.  _You deserve to be happy_. 

He wasn't quite sure what she meant, but it made him smile anyway. 

 

* * *

 

Jack was drunker than he meant to be. But Spring C was a magical day, and if Shitty could start the day by climbing in through everyone’s windows - including the windows of the volleyball house down the block because Shitty _adored_ Farmer and March and April and really just all of the volleyball ladies who were in any way associated with the hockey team - and handing out mimosas then Jack could drink more than one beer. No one was going to judge him here. They were all too wasted to notice.

Bittle, lightweight that he was, was shotgunning beers on the lawn with Ransom and Holster. He was wearing these _ridiculously_ short shorts, beer dripping from the corners of his mouth and Jack shouldn’t have found it attractive but he _did_ and God was he _fucked_ -

The concert was fine. Jack doesn’t really like crowds, and he ended up separated from the team for a while because he elected to stand in the back where there was room to breathe. It was okay, though, because he ended up chatting with Ransom’s maybe-girlfriend, March, who was friendly and energetic and possibly knew everything about every sport ever, hockey included, and just - Jack hoped Ransom marries that woman because she was _great_.

The concert ended, and Jack and March split up to find their own cohorts. He saw Lardo first, riding on Holster’s shoulders though they were both swaying dangerously. Then Shitty, who had lost his denim vest sometime during the concert but somehow had found an American flag to use as a pseudo-toga. He was rambling on and on about _harmony_ and _transcendence_ and Jack assumed that meant he liked the concert.

Ransom was hanging onto Chowder and Farmer, telling them how disgustingly cute they were and how he was sickened by their love. Chowder looked like he would die of embarrassment, but Farmer was laughing, occasionally patting Ransom’s cheek with a fond smile. Dex and Nursey were having an argument, but Jack was almost certain that it wasn’t serious. (Shitty had once said that fighting was like foreplay for them; Jack had stopped asking questions.)

And then there was Bitty, stumbling and incredibly drunk, hair sticking up at weird angles, one foot shoe-less. His face lit up when he saw Jack, his smile blindingly bright, and he limped over to pull Jack into a side hug.

“Where’d you go?” He asked, slurring his speech. “We had so much fun! Where were you?”

Jack chuckled and ducked down to murmur in Bitty’s ear, “I don’t like crowds.”

Bitty pulled away, looking upset. “Why didn’t you say? We would’ve stayed with you!”

Jack shook his head. “No, you deserved to have fun. Don’t let a boring old man like me hold you back.”

BItty frowned. “You’re not boring!”

Jack laughed, but didn’t respond. The rest of the group began their long march back to the Haus, Lardo and Holster in the lead. The walk was slow, as they had to stop once for Shitty to puke, twice for Lardo to take a selfie on Holster’s shoulders, and at least five times for Ransom to text March.

Bitty and Jack brought up the rear, Bitty slowed down because of his lost shoe. “I’m fine,” he kept telling Jack. “Animals don’t have shoes, I don’t need them either!”

“Bittle,” Jack said softly as the group paused for Lardo’s second selfie. “Just get on my back. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Bitty rolled his eyes. “I’m not _actually_ twelve, Jack, I’m a grown-ass man, or, like, I’m a fucking legal adult, okay? Why does everyone think I’m some innocent, virginal flower - just because I’m a normal height and didn’t hit puberty when I was seven or whenever y’all did-”

“Bitty.” Jack squatted down. “Do you want a piggyback ride or not?”

Bitty huffed dramatically. “ _Fine_. But I’m still a grown man, okay?”

“I know,” Jack said with a sigh. “C’mon, we’re losing the others.”

With every ounce of coordination his body could muster, Bitty leapt onto Jack’s back, legs wrapping around his waist, arms around his neck. Now that Bitty was off his feet, he seemed to notice his own exhaustion, and practically melted into Jack.

“M’not a kid,” Bitty murmured into the back of Jack’s neck. “I drink! I have sex! I go on dates and clean the Haus and feed my beloved son, Chowder. I’m an adult.”

Jack choked, though he blamed it on the tight grip of Bitty’s arms around his neck. “Who’s saying you’re not adult?”

“Everyone,” Bitty mumbled, settling his chin on Jack’s shoulder. “Ransom and Holster keep trying to set me up, but I’m pretty sure they think I’m, like, some delicate southern virgin who needs to be treated _gently.”_ Bitty huffed. “I sucked my first dick under the bleachers of the high school football field when I was sixteen. I’m not a baby.”

Jack felt his own dick twitch at the idea of Bittle, in these sinful, red shorts, kneeling in the shadowed grass under the bleachers, mouth stretched around some anonymous cock in the sweltering Georgia heat. He bit back a groan and forced his mind onto other, less arousing thoughts.

“I made out with some rando tonight,” Bittle continued, picking at a loose thread on Jack’s shirt. “It was hot, not even knowing this guy’s name. And he had the most ridiculous blue eyes, I thought I was gonna _die_ .” Bitty sighed. “But the guys just gave me so much shit, acting like I’ve never _kissed_ anyone before. Ransom and Holster like to pretend they’ve fucked half the women on campus, but it’s ridiculous to assume Bitty’s ever even _looked_ at another guy. They’ve set me up for Winter Screw _twice_ , I don’t know why they’re surprised. Fuckers.”

Jack laughed. Drunk Bitty was always a mixed bag, and he was glad he got the version tonight that swore like a sailor. It was _highly amusing._

“You understand what they're like,” Bitty mumbled. “The guys are always calling you _hockey-sexual_.” He paused, huffing a little. “At least they know about all your puck bunnies.”

Jack felt his face burn. This conversation was quickly becoming uncomfortable, especially with Bitty pressed up against him, bare legs tucked against Jack’s ribs, lips brushing his neck. “What puck bunnies?”

“The _Zimmermann Puck Bunnies_ ,” Bitty said with a dramatic flourish of his hands. He toppled backwards, barely hanging onto Jack’s shirt. Jack stopped to readjust, and Bitty tightened his grip around Jack’s neck. “Everyone talks about them when they’re not pretending you’re a sexless hockey robot.”

“Is ‘everyone’ Ransom and Holster?” Jack asked, almost amused. He knew the boys made assumptions about him but he had no idea they _talked_ about it.

“Mhmm,” Bitty hummed. Jack shivered. “But Shitty never denied it, so I assumed they were telling the truth…”

Jack rolled his eyes. “I hooked up with _one_ girl as a frog. Yes, she was a fan, but no, I don’t have- they haven’t used the word ‘harem,’ have they? Because I might have to kick them off the team…”

“I don’t think you have that kind of power, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty said with a small yawn. “So you don’t have legions of puck bunnies on call after every game?”

This made Jack laugh, and he could feel Bitty smiling against his neck. “No, Bittle. I’m not- I’m not as sex-obsessed as the rest of the team.”

“Oh.” He could almost hear Bitty frown. “You aren’t _actually_ hockey-sexual, are you?”

“No, Bittle. I just don’t like one-night-stands very much.”

“Too big a risk?” Bitty asked, tugging absentmindedly at the collar of Jack’s t-shirt. “’Cause you’re famous?”

“Not quite,” Jack murmured, low enough to be sure no one but Bitty could hear. “I just don’t enjoy it. I like to really know the person before…”

“Oh.” Bitty hummed in understanding. “So, like demisexual?”

“Uh, sure.”

Bitty cracked his neck, then began rambling. “I go to GSA meetings sometimes, Lardo’s pretty active in it and I like any chance to bake rainbow cupcakes, and a couple of the people I’ve met there are demi. I don’t know a whole lot ‘bout it, but it kinda sounds like what you’re saying.” He paused, then added, “Not that you need to label yourself or anything. I’m prying, aren’t I? I’m sorry, I’ll stop-”

“Bitty.” Jack smiled, slowly. “It’s fine. I’ve just never really thought about it.”

They approached the Haus, everyone else already disappearing inside. Bitty slid off of Jack gracelessly, stumbling a little in the grass. Jack held his shoulder to steady him, hand lingering a beat too long. Thankfully, Bitty didn’t notice, too distracted by looking up at the house.”I am _really_ concerned that Shitty climbed in my window this morning,” he said, eyes growing wider. “He was already _drunk_.”

Jack laughed. “I’m pretty sure Shits could navigate the roof blindfolded,” he said. “He’s basically lived up there since we were frogs.”

Bitty laughed too. “Well, as long as he makes it to graduation then I guess it’ll be okay.”

 

* * *

 

Graduation was over, most of the team had left for the summer, and Jack was a _fucking idiot for not realizing how he felt sooner_. 

When he got the Haus, he was gasping for breath. Partly it was because he’d sprinted across campus, faster than he’d ever run before, but a small part was the anxiety in his chest, slowly choking him. Papa was right, jack would regret not trying for the rest of his life, but the thought of being wrong-

Jack banished the thought and sprinted up the stairs, nearly skidding into Bitty’s room. But it was empty, every packed away in the basement, bed stripped of its sheets, walls bare. Something hot and painful welled in Jack’s throat; Jack couldn’t tell if it was bile or repressed tears.

He turned, heart aching, breaths shallow, and saw a familiar shock of blonde hair standing in his -- no, Chowder’s -- room.

This was it. Jack focused on his breathing, on the back of Bittle’s neck, on the soft, wet sounds of Bittle’s singing as he folded Chowder’s shirts.

_Ten...nine...eight…_

“Hello! Jack?”

Bitty looked up, startled. He was wearing that blue sweatshirt, the one he’d had on that night everything changed, the night he overheard the fight with Parse.

(The one Jack had imagined a thousand times when he’d fantasized that night going differently, when he’d first leant into Bitty’s space like a planet pulled into a star’s orbit, when he’d first thought about brushing their lips together-)

He swallowed, hard, and forced himself to stop thinking.

_Seven...six…_

“Oh, my goodness,” Bitty was rambling, voice still thick and watery but the tears had stopped flowing. “Why are -- is everything alright? You’re outta breath! You could have texted-”

Jack managed to find his voice. “Bitty.”

_Five...four...three?_

What did you say to someone when you wanted to tell them everything? Where did you start? How did you start? They both had places to be, they both had to go their separate ways, but Jack couldn’t conceive being torn from Bitty’s orbit, not without-

He stopped, and focused again on his breathing.

_Two...two...two…_

Bitty’s eyes were wide and confused and -- hopeful? Jack wetted his lips, unclenched his fists, and steeled himself. It was now or never. His anxiety had taken so much from him in his life, he’d be damned if it took this.

_One_.

He leaned down to press his lips firmly against Bitty’s. Bitty reacted almost immediately, more instinct than conscious movement. His hands - small, warm, rough - planted themselves against Jack’s chest, and he stood on his tiptoes to reach up, to deepen the kiss, to meet Jack halfway.

The pressure in Jack’s chest melted. He cradled the back of Bitty’s head, fingers brushing the short hairs at the nape of Bitty’s neck, thumb running along his jaw.

The kiss didn’t burn like Jack had thought it might. It was warm and soft and clear, just like Bitty, just like being with Bitty, and Jack felt stupid for thinking it would be anything less, anything harsher. Jack broke the kiss, just for a moment, to look at the soft flush on Bitty’s cheeks, the warmth of his half-lidded eyes-

Even an hour later, when he was sitting with his parents and George, buzzing with anxiety and joy, Jack could feel Bitty around him, like sunlight through a kitchen window. He was basking in it; the world around him looked golden.

And if he was smiling a bit too broadly, answering questions a beat too late, no one brought it up. But every now and then, his father would give him a wink and a knowing look.

Maybe he would never fly again, but here on the ground in the light of the sun, Jack thought that he’d be just fine.

 

* * *

 

Bitty was puttering around Jack's apartment in Providence when his phone rang. He disappeared onto the balcony for about ten minutes, and when he got back Jack could see something was wrong.  

"Bits?" He asked tentative, pulling his boyfriend down to sit on the couch. "What's up?"

Bitty stared at his phone with a stunned expression on his face. “My cousin, Brooke, got disowned today.”

Jack was at a loss for words. “Oh, that’s awful. Are you close?”

“Not terribly so, but…” Bitty set his phone to the side, brows furrowing. “It’s because she came out.”

“Oh.” Jack scooted closer to Bitty, tentatively wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Bitty leaned into the touch, relaxing a little.

"She and her parents never really got on, and now she's eighteen and I always assumed she would leave after high school anyways but-" He looked down. "How could they do this to her?"

Jack frowned and tightened his grip. He was already formulating a plan, one that involved plane tickets to Providence and putting clean sheets on the guestroom bed. "Where has she gone?" He asked, before his mind could go into overdrive. 

“That's the thing...My parents took her in,” Bitty whispered. “I thought...I don’t know what I thought, I guess…”

“That’s-” Jack stops himself from saying _great_ , because it’s terrible, getting kicked out of your own house for being gay. “Kind of them.”

Bitty nodded, jaw tight. “They're offering to help her with college, once she graduates. Mama's freaking out, I think she might punch Uncle Cecil next time she sees him. I've never heard her get so angry." He paused, then said, "I think...I think I’ll come out. When I go home for Christmas.”

Jack nodded, pressing a kiss to the back of Bitty’s head. “Do you need me to fly down? I have a couple days off for Christmas, I can be there if you need me to be.”

“Oh, sweetheart, no,” Bitty said, turning to look at Jack. “Spend Christmas with your parents. I’ll be fine, clearly they’re not going to kick me out…” He chuckled, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “But...can I tell them...about us? Not in front of Brooke, just my parents?”

“Yeah,” Jack breathed, pulling Bitty in closer. “Yeah, of course. You can tell Brooke, if you want. As long as I can tell my parents, too.

Bitty laughed. “Of course, honey.”

Jack grinned, leaning back against the wall. “My father might have a heart attack, he’s been bugging me about you since he met you and your mom.”

Bitty pulled back to stare at him, open-mouthed. “Are you serious? Jack, that was my _freshman year_.”

Jack shrugged. “I thought he was just being obnoxious at the time, but...he was oddly prescient, I guess.”

“Oh, my god,” Bitty said, covering his face. “Bad Bob has been teasing you about me since my freshman year.”

“Well, not so much teasing,” Jack said, voice careful. “More...he's been giving me unwanted dating advice.”

This didn’t seem to appease Bittle. “Bad Bob has been trying to get you to _date me_ for _two years_?!”

Jack grimaced. “Um, yes?”

“I’m dead,” Bitty mumbled, pulling a pillow over his head. “First my parents take in my lesbian cousin, now I find out Bad Bob’s been wingman-ing me long-distance for my entire college career.” He paused, the peeked out from under the pillow. “Please take a video of his reaction.”

Jack laughed. “Of course. But you can’t tweet about it.”

Bitty groaned and rolled away, groaning louder when Jack caught him around the waist and pulled him back in.

“If it makes you feel better,” Jack said, kissing Bitty’s neck. “My mother’s been doing it, too. She asks about you every time we call.”

All Jack got in response was a pillow to the face, but when he looked back down Bitty was smiling at him.

“So, being ridiculous runs in the family, eh?” Bitty asked.

“Yeah,” Jack admitted with a laugh. “It’s genetics. What can you do?”

 

* * *

 

 They hadn't even been dating a year but Jack was sad to be spending Christmas without Bitty. But they'd be back together for New Year's, so he supposed he could wait. Jack slumped against his pillow, waiting a few seconds before opening Skype and clicking on Bitty's name. 

Bitty looked content when he answered the call, though a little tired. “Hey, honey,” he said. “How’s Montreal?”

“Cold,” Jack said. “You’d hate it.”

Bitty laughed. “I don’t doubt that.”

There was a pause, both unsure of how to approach the elephant in the room. Jack finally asked, “So...how’d it go?”

Bitty smiled, though it looked a little pained. “It was fine. Neither of them seemed surprised,” he laughed and looked down. “They told me they still love me. I think Brooke was...relieved? I don’t know, she’s seventeen, if I’d had someone else in the family come out when I was seventeen I think I would’ve been a little relieved myself. She and I have been talking a lot, which has been good.”

He sighed. “I think Mama’s still been holding out hope for a daughter-in-law, but I think she’s been preparing herself for that disappointment. Coach has been...surprisingly supportive. I think he’s been reading parenting blogs or something.”

Jack laughed. Coach Bittle was one of the few people he knew who struggled with technology more than he did. The idea of him even _finding_ parenting blogs was pretty comical. A smile tugged at Bitty’s lips and he continued, “I don’t think they’re _thrilled_ but...they love me - and they love Brooke. So that’s enough, I guess.”

Jack smiled. “I’m glad it went well. And...did you tell them about us?”

To Jack’s surprise, Bitty’s face flushed bright red. “Ye-e-es…” He said, drawing out the word slowly. “They, um. Asked some, uh...awkward questions about your visit last July. They’re a little unhappy that we shared a room…” He trailed off with a nervous laugh. “ _But_ they’re glad they met you and know what a ‘fine, upstanding young man you are’ and, honestly, I think Coach is secretly ecstatic that I’m dating a professional athlete, though I’m sure he’d prefer it be an NFL player but NHL is close enough-” Bitty cut himself off, face somehow growing redder. “Then I got a lecture...apparently the birds and the bees was only enough when they thought I’d be...well...and they know my high school sex ed was abstinence-only, and even if it wasn’t how many schools in America teach anal? I mean? But it’s not like I _haven’t_ before, but I wasn’t about to say _that_ in front of them, and honestly they had no clue what they were talking about, they clearly googled it and of _course_ Brooke overheard so she’s been chirping me about it non- _stop-_ ”

Jack was pretty sure that if Bittle didn’t die of asphyxiation first then Jack himself was going to combust from sheer embarrassment. “Bits,” he said, voice stilted. “I’m, um. I’m sorry you had to sit through _the talk_. That’s...awkward.”

Maybe this conversation wouldn’t have been so mortifying if Jack and Bitty had _actually_ ...gone that far. By now. But they so rarely saw each other in person and Jack had been _trying_ to take things slow, had wanted Bitty to be comfortable and not feel pressured, and really it had been so long for him, he would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little nervous about being that intimate with someone again.

Jack knew Bitty wasn’t trying to pressure him by telling him this story. But Jack felt ashamed, felt like he was letting Bitty down. They’d gone pretty far last time Bitty had visited -- Bitty had declared it the best blowjob he’d ever received in his life, though Jack had his doubts -- but if he didn’t get his act together would Bitty get tired of waiting?

Bitty had noticed Jack’s prolonged silence and looked concerned. “Honey, are you okay? Did you hear my question?”

Jack shook his head. “Uh, no, sorry, I’m fine, I zoned out. What did you ask?”

“I asked...well I asked if you were wearing boxers or briefs,” Bitty said a bit shyly. “But you look...scared? Are you sure you’re okay?”

Jack let out a surprised laugh. “Are you trying to seduce me over Skype, Bittle?”

Bitty rolled his eyes. “You know, lots of people have Skype sex, Mr. Zimmermann, it’s not that weird.”

Jack felt himself freeze again. “Oh.”

“But we don’t have to!” Bitty held up his hands. “It’s fine, I just thought I’d give it a shot. Don’t-” He paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Tell me if you ever feel pressured, okay? I know...I know sex is different for you than it is for me. I know there’s a lot meaning behind it.” Bitty paused again, looking mortified. “Not that sex with you doesn’t have meaning for me! I just-!” He dropped his head into his hands, groaning a little. “I’m bad at this.”

Jack smiled. He was so fond of this boy, trying so hard to make Jack feel comfortable. Jack wanted to marry him someday, to wake up with him every day with the sole purpose of making him smile. “Bittle,” he said, voice low. “Thank you.”

Bitty looked up, smiling weakly. “If I could spend the rest of my life just talking to you, I wouldn’t need anything else ever again.”

“Well,” Jack said with a teasing grin. “That’s a nice sentiment, but I remember something about ‘the best blowjob of your life’ just a couple weeks ago…”

Bitty groaned again, laughing a little. “Of course you’d bring that up _now_ . But I stand by it, your mouth is _magical_ , Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack sighed, wishing he could reach through the screen and run his hand through Bitty’s hair. “I want to do everything with you, Bits,” he said. “It might take me a little more time...but I want you. I want to be with you. I even want to...what did you call it? Sext with you?”

Bitty burst into laughter, clutching at his chest. “Jack, honey, I love you, but you can barely _text_. I think we’ll avoid sexting.”

Jack grinned, every cell in his body desperate to be there with Bitty, touching him, kissing him… He took a deep breath and gave Bitty a look that Holster once called his “smoulder.”

“To answer your previous question, Bittle: neither.” He glanced down at the sheets covering his waist, then back up at Bitty’s flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “I’m not wearing either.”

 

* * *

 

Jack had felt a little guilty when Bitty went straight from his graduation ceremony to Providence. Bitty was young and and ready to take on the world; he should've been moving somewhere big and bustling like New York or Boston to work some exciting internship and be wild and free and _out_. Instead he moved in with Jack, under the guise of being a roommate, and couldn't even hold his boyfriend's hand on their weekly walks to the grocery store. 

They both knew Jack was waiting to win the cup - to  _prove_ himself - before coming out. Bitty seemed confident this would happen soon. Jack was terrified he'd be in the closet forever.

Bitty deserved to soar above and beyond, not let Jack drag him down and clip his wings. But Jack was selfish, couldn't bear the thought of letting Bitty go. 

Eventually, though, after watching Bitty's vlog explode in popularity, after seeing Bitty publish a cookbook, after fighting with Bitty and making up with Bitty and eating take-out on the couch and adopting a dog and befriending neighbors and teammates and the sweet ladies who ran the coffee shop around the block - after  _living_ with Bitty, Jack realized that Bitty  _was_ the sun. He didn't need wings at all. 

 

* * *

 

 

They won they cup. For a moment, Jack was flying, heart light and free. He could see Bitty's face in the crowd, could hear Shitty and Hoslter screaming obscene things at him, could hear his friends and his family and the love of his life all cheering for him. It was like a dream.

Less than 24 hours later, the Falconers posted a press release at Jack's request. Because if this  _was_ a dream, then he wanted to spend it with the man he loved, openly. 

 

* * *

 

It was a lazy Sunday morning and Bitty and Jack were lounging in bed. Jack still wasn't used to this, laziness for laziness' sake, but nothing in the universe could tear him out of Bitty's arms in this moment. He was grossly, stupidly, ridiculously in love with this man.

"And poor Brooke, Moomaw's been harping on her for  _ages_ about great-grandbabies, like- calm down, Moomaw, she's still so  _young_." Bitty laughed and rolled his eyes. "She had ten grandbabies to coddle, I think she's getting greedy in her old age." 

Jack chuckled softly. "Aren't you the oldest of your cousins? Somehow I doubt she's going to get any great-grandchildren any time soon." 

Bitty laughed again, a little more awkwardly. "Well, I mean, she'll get 'em eventually..." He trailed off, the sentence more of a question than anything. 

Jack ducked his head, frowning. Bitty reached out and touched his arm, gently. 

“You don’t want to have kids?” He asked. Had Jack known him less, he might not have noticed the disappointment in Bitty's eyes.

“It’s not that I don’t want them. I just know I wouldn’t be a good father,” Jack whispered.

“Jack, that’s ridiculous,” Bitty said, shifting to sit up a little further. “I’ve seen you with kids, you’re a natural-”

“But they’re not _mine_ ,” Jack said, looking away. “I couldn’t forgive myself if my kid turned out as fucked up as me.”

“Jack Zimmermann.” Bitty scrambled to his knees, taking Jack’s face in both hands. He gently guided Jack’s face back to his, resting their foreheads together. “You are the kindest, gentlest, most hard-working person I know. If our child had a _fraction_ of your big, fat heart-” Bitty broke off, face turning a bright shade of red. Jack smiled.

“Our child? You have something to tell me, Bittle?”

“Shush, you,” Bitty whispered. Then, more seriously, “I can’t think of someone who would love their child more than you would.”

Jack leaned down to kiss him, softly, slowly. “I don’t know, _you_ still call Chowder once a week to make sure he’s eating enough…”

Bitty huffed indignantly. “He eats like he’s a teenager! It’s abhorrent!”

“He’s _married_ ,” Jack says. “I think he’ll be okay.”

Bitty let out a dramatic groan. “ _Don’t_ get me started on Caitlin, she’s worse than he is! They think ramen packets constitute an entire meal!”

Jack laughed and wrapped his arms around Bittle’s waist. He’d lost some of his muscle after college and it made him seem even smaller and softer. Bitty hummed softly, snuggling in closer. Jack pressed his lips to the top of Bitty’s head.

“Eric,” he murmured and could almost hear Bitty’s eyebrow quirk. “I think...I think being a father would be less scary with you by my side. If...if you wanted.”

Bitty pulled away, mixed emotions on his face, eyes wide. “Is that what _you_ want?”

Jack nodded. “More than anything.”

Bitty broke out in a broad smile, then began to laugh, verging on hysterics. Jack rolled his eyes fondly and asked, “What’s so funny?”

Bitty wiped at his eyes, gasping for breath. “I think you skipped a couple steps, honey.”

“What are you talking about?” Jack frowned. Bitty leaned up to peck him, still struggling to stop laughing.

“Jack, you just asked me have a child with you- we’re not even _married_.”

Jack knew he was pouting, but he couldn’t help but say, “ _You_ brought up having kids.”

Bitty nearly shrieked with laughter, clutching at his stomach and rolling back against the tangled sheets. “As a _hypothetical!_ I didn’t ask you father my children!”

“Well, then,” Jack said, mock-glaring at Bitty. “Let's get married.””

Bitty froze, mouth falling open. “Did you...did you just propose?”

Jack shrugged, looking down, face burning. “Hypothetically.”

And then Jack was propelled off the bed, Bitty’s limbs wrapped around him. If Bitty hadn’t been kissing every inch of him his mouth could reach, Jack might’ve gotten deja vu.

“-can’t believe you, Mr. Zimmermann, proposing to me by _chirp_ , I will never forgive you- Our children will grow up knowing how absolutely _ridiculous_ their father is, I _cannot-_ I’m telling Shitty, he will _never let you live this down-_ ”

Jack leaned up to stop Bitty’s rambling with a kiss. Bitty pulled away, tugging on Jack’s ear in irritation. “You are the most _ridiculous_ human being, Jack Zimmermann.”

“So, is that a yes?”

Bitty gave him an exasperated look. “ _Is that a yes_ \- Yes, Jack. Yes, I’ll marry you. Yes, I’ll have a thousand children with you. We can have enough to start our own hockey team, the Zimmermann Zambonis. They’ll be like the Von Trapps of the hockey world-”

“Bittle-Zimmermann,” Jack corrected, tucking his face into the crook of Bitty’s neck. “Hyphenated. Or Zimmermann-Bittle.”

“Ridiculous,” Bitty whispered in his ear. He pressed a soft kiss to Jack’s temple, then added. “ _This man_. Always surprising me.”

Jack closed his eyes, pressing a soft kiss to Bitty’s throat. “ _Always_.”

 

* * *

 

The wedding was a small affair. Most of Bitty’s extended family hadn’t been invited and Jack’s family was relatively small, so the guest list was moderate. Everyone who’d ever played on the Samwell Men’s Hockey team with Bitty and Jack - plus Lardo and Michelle, her replacement during Bitty’s last year on the team -- had been invited, as well as several of the Falconers and Bitty’s work friends. Even Parse had been invited, though he hadn’t been able to attend.

(He’d sent them a wedding gift though, an expensive ball whip from the registry. Jack thought he might be reading into things, until he read the attached note rife with double entendres and winky-face emojis. Bitty had just rolled his eyes and put the whisk to use immediately.)

Bitty had insisted of baking his own wedding cake, though he’d allowed the Zimmermanns to bankroll the catering. It was towering and beautiful, off-white tiers decorated with red and blue flowers and fondant sculptures of things that represented their life together: a pair of figure skates leaning against hockey skates; two samwell jerseys, numbers 15 and 1; a Falconers logo; a little lattice-topped pie; and two grooms, one comically taller than the other, perched at the top. Bitty had been itching to instagram it all day, but Jack had stolen his phone to keep the surprise.

Johnson, who had recently gotten back in touch with Bitty, had offered to officiate the service. On Bitty’s side of the altar stood Brooke, Chowder, and Holster; on Jack’s side it was Shitty, Lardo, and Ransom. The men all wore red ties, Lardo and Brooke wore mismatched red dresses. The venue was outside, with a beautiful floral trellis behind the altar and twinkle lights draped through the trees.

Jack didn’t really remember how he got to the altar. He knew that he and Bitty entered from opposite sides of the yard, walking towards each other to meet in the middle - logically he knew that, they rehearsed it several times. But all he knew was that he stepped into the yard, saw Bitty _glowing_ in the evening sunlight, and then was standing at the altar, dazed and happy. Bitty’s face was flushed, smiling up at Jack almost shyly. Next to him, Johnson winked.

He remembered saying "I do," because he'd been so nervous he'd almost garbled them, and he remembers Bitty saying the same, because no two words had ever made Jack's heart light up that way before. They kissed, Holster and Ransom cat-called them, Shitty cried, Lardo pretended not to cry, and Suzanne Bittle wailed and threw herself into Maman's arms.

The reception - or "after-kegster" as Shitty was calling it - was held in the ballroom of the venue, a big wide space decorated in red and white. There was a keg, of course, for old time's sake, and a much classier open bar. They had the first dance, of course, and then Lardo and Brooke were twirling around next to them, and Suzanne and Papa. Shitty co-opted Maman, kissing her hand with an outrageous flourish. Holster and Ransom had stolen each other's dates, and Jack could tell by the way they were whispering in the women's ears that they were telling their most embarrassing stories about each other.  

Jack thought that he could die in this moment, the happiness settling into his bones like sunlight. Bitty pulled him down for a kiss, smiling as widely as Jack. 

There was a cough and Lardo was at Bitty's shoulder, smiling almost shyly. "Mind if I step in?" She asked, and Bitty handed off his husband with a wink. 

"Congrats," she said as Jack spun them around the floor. "The ceremony was beautiful." 

Jack laughed. "Do you really think that's going to get you out of some chirping? I saw you crying just as hard as Shitty." 

Lardo blushed. "You guys make me really happy. I'm glad everything worked out for you." 

Over Lardo's shoulder, Jack could see Shitty dancing with Bitty, probably having a very similar conversation. Jack grinned. 

"Someone told me once," he said, lowering his voice. "That I deserved to be happy."

Lardo laughed a little and nodded. "Sounds like a very wise person." 

"Smartest person I know," Jack said. "I never did thank her for that." 

Lardo looked down. "I'm sure she wasn't expecting you to."

"Yeah, but still." Jack stopped dancing and pulled her into a hug. "Thank you." 

"Aw, Zimmermann," Lardo said, voice watery. "You're gonna make me cry again and I worked  _hard_ on this eyeliner."

He pulled back and kissed her cheek. She laughed and batted him away. "Gross, save that for the hubby."

Jack grinned and bumped his hip into hers. "So, you and Brooke...?"

"I mean, I wouldn't be opposed," she said with a shrug. "But, nah." She cast a look at Shitty. "Probably not." 

Then she was off across the room, stealing Shitty away from Bitty. Jack followed, and took Bitty's hand. 

"Shitty just told me he's gonna take a drink every time we make him happy and that he might die of alcohol poisoning tonight," Bitty said, leaning into Jack's side. "Also he's taking a shot every time you make Lardo cry so please try not to do that anymore, I'm a little concerned for him." 

"Why did we even invite him?" Jack asked. "He's a menace." 

Bitty laughed. "But he's  _our_ menace." 

"Yeah." Jack pecked the top of Bitty's head, carefully not to muss his hair. "It's nice, having everyone all together again." 

Bitty hummed, hand tracing circles into the small of Jack's back. "Our wacky little family, all in one place." 

"So much has changed," Jack said softly. "And yet...so much is still the same." 

"Is that a good thing?" Bitty asked cautiously. "Are you okay?" 

Jack beamed down at Bitty and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. "Better than okay. So much better." 

 

* * *

 

Bitty sat down at the kitchen counter, a binder in his hands. The cover was decorated cheerfully with stickers he’d gotten from Michaels, little baby bottles and pacifiers mixed in with sparkly hockey sticks and ice skates. It read: _The Baby Bittle-Zimmermann Plan of Action (With Annotations and Contributions from the Former Players/Manager of the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team)_

“So I was talking with Brooke,” he began, pouring a tragic amount of sugar and creamer into his mug. Jack leaned over to fill it to the brim, the poured himself a mug of plain, black, trainer-approved coffee. “She and her wife, they’re younger than us but they’ll want to have kids in a few years, and we were talking about it and, y’know, it’d be nice to do, like, a genetics swap? She’s offering to be our egg donor, if I’ll be their sperm donor somewhere down the line.” He looked up at Jack tentatively. “It’s probably the closest we’d get to having a child that was half me, half you. The baby could still be a Bittle…” He paused, noticing the look on Jack’s face. “Do you...not like that idea?”

Jack knew he probably looked like a deer in the headlights, but blood was draining from his face quickly. It felt like the air was sucked from the room, leaving him gasping in a vacuum. “I, um.” He clenched his fists. “I assumed you would be the father.”

Bitty set down the binder. “But you don’t have any cousins to ask…”

Jack took a shaky breath. Bitty watched his face carefully, frowning in concern.

_Ten...nine...eight._

“It’s just…”

_Seven...six_.

He could heard Great Uncle Denis in his head. “The Zimmermanns are a big bunch of alkies and crazies. You ask me, it’s genetic.”

_Five...four...three…_

“I don’t...I don’t want our child…”

_Two…_

Bitty looked up at him, eyes wide. Jack looked away.

_One._

“I don’t want this baby to...be like me.”

Bitty opened his mouth, eyes wide with concern and contempt, probably ready to rehash the same speech he’d given Jack when they’d first talked about kids. Jack cut him off.

“That didn’t come out right,” he said, walking around the counter to grip Bitty’s shoulders. “Bits...I’m just afraid of our kid feeling the way I do. What if they get my anxiety? What if they have to deal with this, too?”

Bitty’s face softened, and he wrapped his arms around Jack’s waist. “What if they get your heart? Or your work ethic? Or your smile?”

Jack looked away, but Bitty pulled him closer. “Say I’m the biological father - what if the baby gets my high blood pressure? My fear of checking?” He pauses, pulling a face of faux terror. “What if our child is _short_?”

Jack chuckled, kissing the top of Bitty’s head. “Okay, okay. I see your point.”

“Honey,” Bitty said. “I want this baby to be a part of both of us. This little person we’re bringing into the world, it’s _ours_.” He pulled back to give Jack a wide, sunny smile. “It’ll be the best of both of us. I promise.”

“You’re right, I know. But…”

“ _And_ if our child has your anxiety,” Bitty said, slowly. “Then we’ll know how to help them. They’ll never feel alone or worthless - not on our watch.”

Jack let out a soft sigh. “I know.” Then, with a smirk. “And I’ll love our child, no matter what. Even if they’re short.”

“Damn straight,” Bitty said, reaching up to give Jack a quick peck. “Now, let’s look through the list of surrogates again. It’s gonna take one hell of a woman to handle a Zimmermann child, I’m sure. Alicia says giving birth to you was a _nightmare_.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “And she’s never let me forget it.”

Bitty snorted, reaching for his binder. “Maybe Lardo would do it. Seems like the kind of weird, performance art she’d be into.”

“That’d be a great one to tell the kids,” Jack mused. “Aunt Lardo was your surrogate because she thought it was gross and wanted to turn it into an exhibit.”

Bitty laughed. “Okay, maybe we wouldn’t tell them _that_.”

“I’m not lying to my child, Bittle,” Jack said, turning on what Shitty liked to call his Captain Voice. Bitty swatted at his chest and flipped through the profiles.

“Yes, yes, we both know you’re going to a terrific father, now help me look.”

 

* * *

 

Bitty hadn’t heard from Jack all afternoon and he was beginning to worry. He’d sounded terse on the phone that morning, gruff in way that meant he was feeling on-edge. Bitty had fretted the entire plane ride home, nearly unraveling the frayed edges of his blue sweatshirt.

He’d called again when he landed, but no one answered. Worry was turning into anxiety, but Bitty took a few deep breaths and hailed a cab. Jack was out, Jack was asleep, Jack was absolutely fine and there was nothing to worry about.

When Bitty entered the house, it was silent. This wasn’t unusual; Jack was a quiet man. But that knowledge didn’t ease Bitty’s worry.

With a sigh, he climbed the stairs to the second floor, hoping to find his husband asleep in their room. It was empty, bed made so neatly that Bitty could’ve bounced a quarter off the taut sheets.

Then he heard it, the quiet counting that Bitty had heard a hundred times. He tiptoed back into the hall and saw the door to Sunny’s room was open. He peered in and felt his heart melt.

Jack was settled in the rocking chair in the corner, snuffling toddler curled against his chest. He was rocking them back and forth, slowly, counting down from ten and breathing slowly.

“ _Two...one…_ ”

Two pairs of light blue eyes looked up at Bitty. Sunny grinned sleepily at him, tears shining on her ruddy cheeks. Bitty crossed over and kissed her forehead and the tip of her nose before burrowing his face in Jack’s hair.

“Bad dream,” Jack murmured. “But I think she's okay now.”

Bitty rubbed circles into Jack’s back and ran a hand through his daughter’s dark hair. She grabbed one of his fingers and held on, bubbling with laughter, staring up at her daddy like he was the greatest thing she’d ever seen. Bitty would never get used to that look, would never stop cherishing how light and warm it made him feel.

Then he noticed Jack was staring up at him in the same way, his face soft and happy and adoring. Bitty leaned down to kiss him again.

Years ago he’d learned that kissing Jack Zimmermann was like sinking into deep water. It left him breathless, even all these years later. But then he just had to look into Jack’s eyes and his feet would be planted on solid ground. Stable. At home.

“C’mon,” he said, nudging Jack’s arm with his hip. “Who wants a snack?”

“Bittle, you literally just got home,” Jack protested, a small grin spreading across his face.

“Da-da! Pie!” Sunny said, chubby cheeks strained in a wide smile. Both men laughed.

“Maybe something with bit more protein first,” Jack said. Bitty nearly doubled over with laughter.

“Let’s just see what I can whip up,” Bitty said, pulling Sunny into his arms. Jack stood, slowly, stretching out his back. Then, he leaned down for another kiss, soft and sweet. He pulled away, studying Bitty’s face, and smiled.

“Hey.”

“Hello, Jack.”

"How was your flight?" 

Bitty shrugged and they headed down the stairs, Sunny pulling at the drawstring on Jack's hoodie. "Same old, same old. How were things here?"

"Sunny and I have been working on our breathing techniques," Jack said, voice soft. "Also, we got an invitation for Ransom and March's wedding. You should read it, I'm almost certain Holster wrote a special version for the old team. There's a ridiculous amount of swearing in it, and it refers to March as 'the fiery temptress who stole my best bro.'"

Bitty laughed. "Right, like Holster and March don't get on like a house on fire. Lardo tells me they get dinner once a week to gossip about Ransom."

The kitchen was Bitty's favorite room in the house, though that wasn't a surprise to anyone. But it was large and open and the tall windows let it so much light. Bitty knew Jack liked it, too, liked how calm it was. He set Sunny in her high-chair and pulled out celery and peanut butter for everyone to snack on. As he set everything on the counter, Jack came up behind him and pressed a kiss into his hair. 

"You sure you're okay, honey?" Bitty asked, turning to face Jack. Jack smiled. 

"I was feeling bad earlier, couldn't really breathe, but then Sunny had her nightmare and it distracted me." He leaned down to peck Bitty, hands lightly settling on his hips. "I'm glad you're home." 

Bitty pressed his face into Jack's chest and smiled. "I missed you both so much. It's good to be home."

And this  _was_ home, with Jack and Sunny. Just like their little apartment in Providence had been  _home_ , and the Samwell haus before that. It was home in a way Bitty had never known existed, not even at his parents' house in Madison. 

Bitty looked at Jack, who had bags under his eyes but was grinning widely and freely. He looked at Sunny, who had tears drying on her cheeks but babbled happily as she watched her daddies. And he caught his own reflection in the silver refrigerator door, rumpled and tired from his flight and his worry. But they were all okay now, their own personal storms gone and passed. 

Sunlight filtered through the curtains into the kitchen and life went on. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the most personal fic I've ever written. Honestly, I felt so emotional writing it that it gave me mega nostalgia for all the Twific i wrote in middle school, though none of that was based on my experiences with anxiety (more just a product of my teenage ennui). I relate to JZ an embarrassing amount but it's given me an outlet for everything going on in my brain so I guess there's that.
> 
> My tumblr is boring but come say [hi.](http://www.eve-baird.tumblr.com)


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